"This is a decrepit building... Nothing will ever live in it," He had declared while the building sobbed in the background...sobbed for being cursed to such a deprived life.
Bhagwan Singh was a name synonymous with genius, eccentricity and complexity. His real estate business catered to just him. His buildings were an extension of him, his moods, his whims, his fancies. He had absolutely beautiful creations to his name. But then he had gotten built the most ghastly of them too—as if he needed to balance beauty with ogre. He strove for a balance which no one could ever understand, neither the people who worked for him, nor those who worked against him, or even those who were devoted to him. Nobody asked him questions. Even if they did, they got no answers. It was possible that he hadn't even heard what they had said.
Bhagwan was inert. Inert to everything, but himself. Some of his creations were the epitome of life itself, some of a problem solved, some of a weathered shore which is used to crisis, others of a desert—a polar one where not even cactus grew. And then he had gone out and built this sepulchral, a hideous monument devoted to barrenness—barrenness of the womb of a mother who yearns for fertility. "This is a decrepit building... Nothing will ever live in it," He had declared while the building sobbed in the background...sobbed for being cursed to such a deprived life.
His architect looked at him in wonder. How could someone be like him? What stuff was he made of? He had looked up at the building he had been forced to design; his baby was barren with a life of loneliness lying ahead of it. Why did Bhagwan make such a building? And why, of all the architects he had, did he choose him for such a misery? He couldn't remain silent this time; he couldn't bear to hear the deafening tears of his baby.
"Why sir? Why such a building?" He stammered. Bhagwan was silent. The architect stood waiting for him, sometimes praying to him to provide answers. And then he left him, thinking, perhaps, this isn't the right time to ask. Maybe some other day. Maybe, he'll allow him to improve the building too, he thought, growing optimistic with every thought.
Bhagwan smiled to himself. He had heard what the architect had been asking. But then it was his policy to never answer. Everyone was beneath him. He was the lord. His smiled widened when he saw the building. The architect has done a good job, he thought, even though he cribs too much. But then, so do most of my subjects, he contemplated. He decided to give him a raise. Perhaps, that would shut him up.
The building matched his dark side. Its tears made him feel good. He knew the building wanted a new lease of life, it wanted to feel alive. It was living a dead life. But then, it was helpless. He had made the building; and it would remain in the form he wanted it to be—this was the form. He said aloud, "I cannot disturb my balance. What happened was destined." The building shuddered. And Bhagwan stood there and laughed.
